“How do you know so much about lying?”

“Oh, I used to lie all the time as a kid.” I didn’t think of it as lying, though. I thought of it as playing make-believe. I told Kitty she was adopted and her real family was in a traveling circus. It’s why she took up gymnastics.

40

I’M NOT SURE HOW DRESSED up I should get for dinner at Peter’s house. At the store his mom seems so fancy. I just don’t want to meet her and have her be thinking of all the ways that I’m lacking compared to Genevieve. I don’t see why I have to meet her at all.

But I do want her to like me.

I go through my closet, and then Margot’s closet. I finally pick a cream-colored sweater and a blouse with a Peter Pan collar, with a corduroy mustard circle skirt. Plus tights and flats. Then I put on some makeup, which I hardly ever wear. I put on peach blush and I try to do some eye makeup, but I end up washing everything off and starting over again, this time with just mascara and lip gloss.

I go show Kitty and she says, “Looks like a uniform.”

“Like in a good way?”

Kitty nods. “Like you work at a nice store.”

Before Peter arrives at my house, I go on the computer and look up what fork to use with what, just in case.

* * *

It’s strange. Sitting at Peter’s kitchen table, I feel like I’m living someone else’s life. It turns out Peter’s mom has made pizzas, so I didn’t even need to worry about forks. And their house isn’t fancy on the inside; it’s just normal and nice. There’s a real butter churner on display in the kitchen, pictures of Peter and his brother hanging on the walls in wooden frames, and red-and-white gingham everything.

There are a bunch of pizza toppings on the breakfast bar—not just pepperoni and sausage and mushroom and pepper, but also artichoke hearts and greasy kalamata olives and fresh mozzarella and whole cloves of garlic.

Peter’s mom is nice. She keeps putting more salad on my plate all throughout dinner, and I keep eating it even though I’m full. Once, I catch her looking at me, and she has a soft smile on her face. When she smiles, she looks like Peter.

Peter’s younger brother is named Owen. He’s twelve. He’s like a miniature Peter, but he doesn’t talk as much. He doesn’t have Peter’s easy way. Owen grabs a slice of pizza and shoves it into his mouth even though it’s too hot. He puffs out hot air and he almost spits a piece back out into his napkin, and their mom says, “Don’t you dare, Owen. We have company.”

“Leave me alone,” Owen mumbles.

“Peter says you have two sisters,” Mrs. Kavinsky says with a bright smile. She cuts a piece of lettuce into bite-sized bits. “Your mother must love having three girls.”

I open my mouth to answer her, but before I can, Peter does. He says, “Lara Jean’s mom passed away when she was little.” He says it like she should already know, and embarrassment crosses her face.

“I’m so sorry. I remember that now.”

Quickly I say, “She did love having three girls. They thought for sure my little sister Kitty was going to be a boy, and my mom said she was so used to girls she was nervous about what she was going to do with a boy. So she was really relieved when Kitty turned out to be a girl. My sister Margot and I were too; we would pray every night we’d get a sister and not a brother.”

“Hey, what’s wrong with boys?” Peter objects.

Mrs. Kavinsky’s smiling now. She puts another piece of pizza on Owen’s plate and says, “You’re heathens. Wild animals. I bet Lara Jean and her sisters are angels.”

Peter snorts.

“Well . . . Kitty might be part heathen,” I admit. “But my older sister Margot and I are pretty good.”

Mrs. Kavinsky takes her napkin and tries to wipe tomato sauce off Owen’s face, and he swats her hand away. “Mom!”

When she gets up to take another pizza out of the oven, Peter says to me, “See how my mom babies him?”

“She babies you way more,” Owen counters. To me he mumbles, “Peter doesn’t even know how to cook ramen.”

I laugh. “Can you?”

“Hell yeah, I’ve been cooking for myself for years,” he says.

“I like to cook too,” I say, taking a sip of iced tea. “We should give Peter a cooking lesson.”

He eyes me and then says, “You wear more makeup than Genevieve did.”

I shrink back like he slapped me. All I’m wearing is mascara! And a little lip gloss! I know for a fact that Genevieve wears bronzer and eye shadow and concealer every day. Plus mascara and eyeliner and lipstick!

Swiftly Peter says, “Shut up, Owen.”

Owen’s snickering. I narrow my eyes. This kid is only a few years older than Kitty! I lean forward and wave my hand in front of my face. “This is all natural. But thank you for the compliment, Owen.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, just like his big brother.

* * *

On the drive home, I say, “Hey, Peter?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“What? Just ask.”

“Well . . . your parents are divorced, right?”

“Yup.”

“So how often do you see your dad?”

“Not often.”

“Oh, okay. I was just wondering.”

Peter looks over at me with expectant eyes.

“What?” I say.

“I’m just waiting for the next question. You never just have one question.”

“Well, do you miss him?”

“Who?”

“Your dad!”

“Oh. I don’t know. I think it’s more that I miss how it used to be with us. Him and my mom and me and Owen. We were like a team. He used to come to every lacrosse game.” Peter gets quiet. “He just . . . took care of things.”

“I guess that’s what dads do.”

“That’s what he’s doing for his new family.” Peter says it matter-of-factly, without bitterness. “What about you? You miss your mom?”

“Sometimes, when I think about it.” Suddenly I say, “You know what I miss? I miss bath time. I miss when she would wash my hair. Don’t you think getting your hair washed is just the best feeling? Like, warm water and bubbles and fingers in your hair. It’s so nice.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Sometimes I don’t think about her at all, and then . . . and then sometimes I’ll have a thought like, I wonder what she would think of me now? She only knew me as a little girl, and now I’m a teenager, and I wonder, if she saw me on the street, would she recognize me?”

“Of course she would. She’s your mom.”

“I know, but I’ve changed a lot.” An uncomfortable look has crossed his face, and I can tell he’s regretting complaining about his dad, because at least his dad is still alive. And then, because Peter’s looking at me like he feels sorry for me, I straighten up and say in a haughty voice, “I’m very mature, you know.”

He’s grinning now. “Oh yeah?”

“Oh, yes, I’m very refined, Peter.”

When Peter drops me off, right before I get out of the car, he says, “I can tell my mom liked you.” This makes me feel good inside. It’s always been really important to me that other people’s moms like me.

It was my favorite part of going over to Genevieve’s house—hanging out with her mom. Wendy was so stylish. She used to wear a silky blouse and nice pants and a statement necklace, just for sitting around the house. Perfect hair, always smooth and flat. Genevieve has that same good hair, but she doesn’t have her mom’s perfect straight nose. Hers has a little bump on the bridge that I think only adds to her appeal.

“By the way, you definitely don’t wear more makeup than Gen. She was always getting bronzer on my white shirts.”

For someone who’s over Genevieve, he sure does talk about her a lot. Though it’s not just him. I was thinking about her too. Even when she’s not here, she’s here. That girl has some kind of reach.

41

DURING CHEMISTRY, PETER WRITES ME a note that says, Can I come over tonight to study for the test?

I write back, I don’t remember study sessions being in the contract. After he reads it, he turns around and gives me a wounded look. I mouth, I’m kidding!

* * *

At dinner I announce that Peter’s coming over to study and we’re going to need the kitchen, and my dad raises his eyebrows. “Leave the door open,” he jokes. We don’t even have a door to the kitchen.

“Daddy,” I groan, and Kitty groans with me.

Casually he asks, “Is Peter your boyfriend?”

“Um . . . something like that,” I say.

After we eat and Kitty and I do the dishes, I set up the kitchen like a study room. My textbook and notes are stacked up in the center of the table, with a row of highlighters in blue, yellow, and pink, a bowl of microwave kettle corn, and a plate of peanut-butter brownies I baked this afternoon. I let Kitty have two but that’s it.

He said he’d be over around eight. At first I think he’s just late as usual, but the minutes tick by and I realize he’s not coming. I text him once but he doesn’t text back.

Kitty comes down between commercial breaks, sniffing around for another brownie, which I give her. “Is Peter not coming?” she asks. I pretend I’m so absorbed in my studying I don’t hear.

Around ten he sends a text that says, Sorry something came up. I can’t come over tonight. He doesn’t say where he is or what he’s doing, but I already know. He’s with Genevieve. At lunch he was distracted; he kept texting on his phone. And then, later in the day, I saw them outside the girls’ locker room. They didn’t see me, but I saw them. They were just talking, but with Genevieve it’s never just anything. She put her hand on his arm; he brushed her hair out of her eyes. I may only be a fake girlfriend, but that’s not nothing.

I keep studying, but it’s hard to concentrate when your feelings are hurt. I tell myself it’s just because I went to the trouble of baking brownies and cleaning up the downstairs. I mean, it’s rude to just not show up somewhere. Does he not have manners? How would he like it if I did that? And really, what’s the whole point of this charade if he’s just going to keep going back to her anyway? What’s even in it for me anymore? Things are better with Josh and me, practically normal. If I wanted to I could just call the whole thing off.

The next morning, I wake up still mad. I call Josh to ask him for a ride to school. For a second I worry he might not pick up; it’s been so long since we hung out. But he does, and he says no problem.

Let’s see how Peter likes it when he comes to my house to pick me up and I’m not there.

Halfway to school I start to feel uneasy. Maybe Peter had a legitimate reason for not coming over. Maybe he wasn’t with Genevieve and now I’ve just done a very petty thing out of spite.

Josh is looking at me with suspicious eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

He doesn’t believe me, I can tell. “Did you and Kavinsky have a fight?”

“No.”

Josh sighs and says, “Just be careful.” He says it in a patronizing older-brother kind of way that makes me want to scream. “I don’t want to see you hurt by that guy.”

“Josh! He won’t hurt me. Geez.”

“He’s a douche. I’m sorry, but he is. All the guys on the lacrosse team are. Guys like Kavinsky, they only care about one thing. As soon as they get what they want, they’re bored.”

“Not Peter. He dated Genevieve for almost four years!”

“Just trust me. You haven’t had much experience with guys, Lara Jean.”

Quietly I ask, “How would you know?”

Josh gives me an Oh, come on look. “Because I know you.”

“Not as well as you think.”

We’re quiet the rest of the way.

It won’t be that big of a deal. Peter will stop by my house, see that I’m not there, and then he’ll leave. Big deal, so he had to go five minutes out of his way. I waited for him last night for two friggin’ hours.

When we get to school, Josh heads for the senior hall and I go straight to the junior hall. I keep sneaking peeks down the hallway at Peter’s locker, but he doesn’t arrive. I wait at my locker until the bell rings, and he still doesn’t come. I run off to first period, my backpack banging against my back as I go.

Mr. Schuller is taking attendance, when I look up and see Peter standing in the doorway glaring at me. He gestures at me to come out. I gulp and quickly look down at my notebook and pretend like I didn’t see him. But then he hisses my name, and I know I have to talk to him.

Shakily I raise my hand. “Mr. Schuller, can I go the bathroom?”